Chapter Two
The trip to the asylum is not going well.
The ship is well-guarded and Azula is well-medicated. However, when Azula is brought to the deck because she meekly states that the heat stirring where she is, on top of the rocking of the ship, is making her sick, she manages to escape the guards by displaying a great deal of force they don't expect from a girl with such limp arms. She darts to one edge of the ship, turns and exclaims that she is going to jump into the ocean. Nobody moves because they fear she will jump if startled or provoked.
Eventually, Sokka steps forward.
"You can't stop me, peasant!" She hysterically recalls an instance where she spoke to one guard about the merciless tides—now whispering to herself and sobbing. Perhaps one with a questionable taste in comedy can say that the tides have turned. Azula laughs, which is considerably frightening since many do not consider those on the verge of suicide to be particularly jovial.
"'Kay, look. The evil princess I knew would never do this." Why should this boy even care if she dies? Why should any of them care? They all betrayed her, abandoned her, deserted her. They all left.
"And how is that?" Azula replies, her eyes wild.
"Because," Sokka replies, "it's, um, very unroyal-like?"
Yes, this will be a long day.
Azula walks into the dim street, unperturbed at the darkness.
The Water Tribesman was right; in regards to killing herself, she would've never done that. She was too proud—but now, the future is too bleak. She has nobody. Back then, it didn't matter. Now, she strides forth with aplomb, but she does so with no purpose.
"Madam," a man's voice says.
"Yes?" She turns, blocking out the voices of the other women outside of the theater. Azula does not consider them to be her friends, but they are convivial enough to the point that the former princess is not rebarbative toward them.
"I enjoyed your performance." The man's voice is strange, his face partially concealed. He isn't leering; his posture is relaxed, unintimidating.
With her voice crisp and tone refined, visage placid, she says, "Thank you."
Vlad inclines his head.
"Miss."
The young woman tilts her head to show she's listening. Her brows are knitted tightly toward the center of her forehead.
"I mean nothing uncouth, but may I ask your name?"
"Granddaughter," Roku says, "I can only do so much."
"Lan," she replies. The word rings hollow, and Azula quickly walks away as to avoid any further conversation with a stranger she has no intention on knowing.